


Three Times Malcolm Tucker's Old Life Collided With His New One

by DaraOakwise



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick Of It
Genre: Crossover, Crossover crackship, F/M, The Thick Of Unit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 00:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaraOakwise/pseuds/DaraOakwise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker, UNIT's fearsome and foul-mouthed Director of Communications, once had a very different life. And from time to time, his new life collides with his old one. A Doctor Who/The Thick of It crossover inspired by Nehszriah's "The Thick of Unit" universe. Rated for usual offensive Malcolm Tucker-isms and implied sexytimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Malcolm Tucker's Old Life Collided With His New One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nehszriah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Thick of UNIT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932334) by [Nehszriah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah). 



> Note: With permission, this is inspired by Nehszriah's excellent crossover crackship, "The Thick of Unit." Go read it, it's awesome. But to get you up to speed: the premise is that post-series The Thick of It, Malcolm Tucker went to prison. But shortly thereafter, Kate Stewart, of Doctor Who fame, secured his release so that he could bring his unique skills to UNIT. Because who better to spin alien invasions than the Wolf of Whitehall? Also, Malcolm and Kate eventually start a relationship, because they are both middle-aged kick-ass bureaucrats who are hot together. This story shouldn't particularity be read as an attempt to fit into Neh's universe, because she's still writing it and is the queen there. I'm just taking her AU for an AU spin of its own :)

I.

The invitation to join Julius Nicholson for lunch had been unexpected, to say the least. Malcolm hadn't seen Lord Baldy-fucking-wank since before the Party had lost the election. Malcolm knew that the the blue-skies policy man hadn't faded away--Julius could be brilliant, and Malcolm had recognized his ideas meandering through politics in the intervening years. They'd clashed, often violently, in the old days, but despite it all, the silver-spooned cumwipe and the vulgar enforcer had enjoyed an odd affection for each other.

Still, there was no reason at all for the paths of the Right Honorable Lord Poncyfuck of Arnage and the disgraced ex-felon-turned-UNIT-mouthpiece to cross again. And yet there it was in Malcolm's voicemail: Julius's over-cultured voice sending greetings and politely suggesting lunch, at Malcolm's 'convenience, of course.' Which is how Malcolm found himself at Julius's tasteful townhouse on a late Sunday afternoon, enjoying some excellent beef and declining Julius's repeated offers for a drink.

"I'd almost forgotten that about you," Julius laughed, savoring the last bites of his lunch. "How you could carry around the same scotch all evening without looking like you'd been carrying around the same scotch all evening. Stone sober, the most dangerous man in the room."

Malcolm shrugged, and waited for Julius to get to the point. The other man dabbed his lips of the last of lunch, then leaned back in his chair.

"I will confess," Julius said slowly, "I didn't expect I'd share a meal with you again. The nature of your sentence was too grievous. And, although you might not believe me, I did mourn for that. When I heard that you'd been released, I didn't credit it. Surely even with your remarkable and, shall we say, unique talents, even you could not engineer such a feat. But I kept hearing it. Then I started seeing MP's and Ministers walking about like they'd seen a ghost, and journalists grumbling about the return of a vanquished foe. But I still didn't believe it until, one day, there you were on television, denying rumors of an extraterrestrial invasion, of all things."

Malcolm laughed ruefully. "Just goes to show you how far I've fallen. Fucking Icarus with burning wax in my eyes, working for fucking voodoo scientists and their fucking Trek Wars-- fucking Lego Buffy wet dreams. Last week I got to deny mind control and a fucking, literally, fucking alien-human hybrid genetic program. It's shit, but better than prison."

Julius steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "Malcolm ..." he hesitated, then forged ahead. "There are a few people who wonder--just a few, mind, those with brains and wit--who wonder this: if UNIT really is, as you say, 'voodoo science,' why do they need Malcolm Tucker?"

"Washed out old felon, laughing-stock department. Good fucking match, yeah?"

Julius frowned. "That's what I might think, except for four things." He held up a finger. "First, UNIT is not a laughing stock, not at the high levels. I once tried to suggest a drastic reduction of the UNIT budget, and was forcefully instructed to never discuss the matter again. Interestingly, or perhaps frighteningly, my counterparts in the other party have made similar suggestions and received the same response. So, UNIT is both untouchable and non-political."

"Second," Julius continued before Malcolm could respond, "And it is a related but separate point, UNIT did not simply obtain the services of a broken man--no offense--after his release from prison. Rather, they had you released years early without any difficulty whatsoever. They wanted you, so they got you, no questions asked, in complete disregard of any usual processes or procedures."

"You're overstating," Malcolm sighed, slumping back in his chair.

"I think not," Julius replied. "Third, we cannot deny the existence of, shall we say, strange phenomena. Cubes, ghosts, robots, just to name a few. UNIT's capacity to explain them away has vastly improved of late, because of you, I suspect, but the evidence of the otherworldly cannot be completely hidden."

"And fourth?" Malcolm asked flatly while Julius smugly sipped his drink. "Fourth," Julius said, "And this is particularly significant: Malcolm Tucker is happy. Gleeful, almost. If you know what to look for, and I do, you see a Malcolm Tucker enjoying himself at least as much as he did at the height of his powers at Number 10. If not more so. The old wolf, let off his chain, hunting the biggest prey of his life. So I'll ask again: if UNIT has nothing to hide, why do they need Malcolm Tucker?"

Malcolm gave an incredulous laugh and ran his fingers through his short-cropped silver hair. It had been brown, once, back when he'd first met Julius, and had gone gray during his years in government. At UNIT, it was rapidly moving toward white, and conversations like this didn't help matters. He leaned forward in his chair, hands folded in front of his face and elbows on the table.

"You know, you fucking limp-cock, it was good to see you. Sitting here on fucking Mount Olympus, having a laugh about violently raping each other in the bad old days. A good talk. Since that's all we fucking talked about."

Julius nodded slowly. "I hear the wave off, Malcolm. I hear it, and understand the message, and the message behind the message."

"Do you?" Malcolm asked. Malcolm fingered the device in his pocket. Useful thing, memory wipes. Would have made his life easier at Number 10. But it was cheating more than little, and he didn't like to use it; it made his persuasive skills go wobbly. But it made for an interesting threat. Malcolm lifted it out of his pocket and set it on the table. Julius's eyes widened.

"Let me be more explicit. I won't wipe your memory, Julius," he said, gesturing at the dangerous little piece of tech."Because you'd just figure it out again, unless I took you back to sometime before you knew how to wipe your owe arse. But do us a fucking favor, yeah? Don't poke your cock into things that might bite it off."

Malcolm pushed back his chair and stood. "Thanks for lunch," he said, offering Julius his hand. Julius stood and took it with a regretful nod. Then Malcolm smiled faintly and gave Julius his card, the real one with the hidden chip that would let Julius walk through the door at Mainframe UK. "You should come by the office, I'll return the favor. There's some fucking spicy Thai within walking distance. And one or two things you just might find interesting."

 

II.

They'd stopped watching the video fifteen minutes in. Kate was bored by it, and so had pushed Malcolm back on the couch and stretched out on top of him as she languidly explored his mouth with her tongue, to no complains from him. About the time his hand went up her shirt, and hers went down his trousers, Malcolm's niece (and flatmate) Lex had sighed in exasperation.

"For the love of ... _again_? Honestly, it's like being back at university," Lex grumbled. "Damn horny flatmates. Right. I'm going to bed, and taking the video and the popcorn with me this time. Cheers, Kate, have a nice shag," she said cheerfully. Malcolm casually flipped both his middle fingers at her, and she laughed all the way down the hall.

"She stole our movie," Malcolm complained.

"It was terrible," Kate answered.

"It is a classic."

" _Hot Tub Time Machine_?" she scoffed. "Hardly. Now shut up, you have better things to do with your mouth."

"Yes ma'am," he smirked. He didn't shut up, because he wasn't capable of it, but made it up to her with fingers that were just as talented (and as fucking naughty) as his tongue. Malcolm always said that he'd be happy to be on his back wherever and whenever she wanted him, so long as he had the frankly fantastic view of Kate riding him, but they eventually decamped from the couch to the bedroom; they pretended it was because they had standards, but it was more that they had a century's worth of protesting backs between them.

Still, fucking in Malcolm's excellent bed made for a nice lie-in the next morning (to the utterly indulgent hour of seven a.m.,) followed by a steamy half hour together in the shower. By half past eight, he was cheerfully cooking omelettes and Kate was staring suspiciously at both of their mobile phones.

"No calls," Kate marveled. "Is it possible that we might actually get a day off together, or do you suppose that the mobile network has just gone down in a horrific attack?"

"Don't care," Malcolm said.

"I'm going to call in."

Malcolm groaned. "Don't fucking call in."

"I'm calling," Kate said, lifting her mobile to her ear. Malcolm half-listened to the one-sided conversation, making menu plans for dinner in his head, an act of defiant optimism that they might get a whole Sunday off without an emergency.

"That was the Osgoods. They're bored," Kate said in wonder. "I can't remember, what do people do on weekends when they're not working?"

Malcolm grinned at her. "I need ingredients for dinner, and haven't been to my favorite farmers market in ages. What do you say? Buy some fucking expensive organic produce, watch people walk by, expose our pasty white skin to the flaming nuclear reactor in the sky?"

"Sounds lovely," Kate said with a smile.

An hour later, Malcolm held Kate's hand as they strolled through the market. It was a rare, glorious spring day, and they were just a happy couple out to enjoy it. It was one of Malcolm's favorite markets; big enough to have good variety, but small enough that you could bullshit with the shop owners about composting and vegan recipes. He hadn't been here since before prison, but it hadn't changed. Other than the fact that Malcolm was now aware that a number of the shop owners were aliens.

"Is that Dvorpev?" Kate asked, her eyes narrowing as they walked past a garishly decorated kiosk. "Fuck me, it is. He knows he doesn't have a license to sell off-world goods. I'm going to go bust him."

Malcolm groaned. "Leave it, pet. You do that and we'll be buried in a pile of paperwork thicker than my cock. It's just some aroma-aphrodisiacs that don't work on humans anyway, won't hurt anyone. Let him make a few quid, and I'll bollock him off on Monday."

Kate looked like she was going to protest, then blew out a breath. "Fine," she grumped. "Ruin all my fun."

He laughed at her and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "I'm going to go source some arugala," he said.

She rolled her eyes at him. "You are a fucking poof sometimes, you know that?" she said fondly. "Go find your vegetables, I'm going to look at scarves."

He was in far too good a mood today to seriously haggle, but was arguing with a grower over a few spots on the produce, just out of principle, when a woman grabbed his elbow. "Oh my god, Malcolm, is that you?" she asked, and before he could answer, he found himself on the receiving end of an enormous hug. "Oh my god, Malc!"

"Ah, wee Sam!" he cried, delighted to see the best PA he'd ever had. "What are you doing here?"

"Best market in London, like you always said," she answered, and he shrugged; no disputing that. She reached up and put her hands on either side of his face so she could look at his eyes. "Malc. _God_. I heard you were out. You even look almost okay. Too pale and skinny, and really, really gray, but look at your eyes. There was hardly anything left of you at the end of ... well, you know ... But there's my Malcolm." She beamed up at him.

He smiled fondly down at her. "I'm more than okay. Really good. Have a terrific girlfriend, doing interesting things. But how are you? Still the PA for that grocery CEO?" He bought his produce (at full price) with a quick "cheers, mate," to the shop owner, then tucked Sam under his arm and walked back into the sunshine.

"No, doing my own work," Sam answered. "Putting that degree to good use, a non-profit. Trying to end malaria, which wouldn't actually be hard if we could get a hold of a couple hundred million good mosquito nets."

"Good for you," Malcolm beamed. "Still seeing Lisa?"

"We got engaged last year, getting married in July," Sam answered with a smile. "Give me your address, and I'll send you an invite. I've been trying to find you, but tracking you down has been tough. Everybody from the old days knows you're out there somewhere, but it's all papered over with mystery and misdirection. I even asked Jamie, and all he said is 'fuck if I know.'"

Malcolm pulled out his phone and sent her a text. "There. My fucking secret contact info."

"Why is it secret, Malc? Because you say it like you're teasing, but I know you, and you aren't."

"Ah, just saving the planet," he answered lightly.

Sam gave him an appraising look, then shook her head. "Is your plus-one here?" she asked, knowing, as ever, when to change the subject.

"Right there," he answered, nodding toward his girlfriend as Kate made her way toward them, a slightly territorial look in her eye at the sight of Malcolm with his arm around a pretty woman. Malcolm saw it, and grinned.

"Hey, pet, you've heard me talk about Sam, yeah? Kate, Sam; Sam, Kate," he introduced them.

"The wonder PA," Kate answered, hostility vanishing. "Who was stuck taking care of this wanker all those years." The women smiled at each other, immediately bonded over their common source of aggravation.

"It was alway my honor," Sam said softly. She pulled Malcolm down so she could kiss his cheek. "I've got to run. We have an appointment to look at wedding cakes. But it was so good to see you. I'm glad you're happy. Hang on to it, will you? It will make my heart lighter."

"Do my best," he said. "And you." Sam gave a wave and dashed off into the crowd. "She always saved me. So many, many times, Kate. She'll save the world too, my Sam, in her own way," Malcolm told Kate as they watched her go.

Kate bumped his shoulder with hers, and pretended to ignore the sheen of tears in his eyes. "Old softie," she teased gently. "Emphasis on 'old,' mind."

"Yeah," he answered, a little shakily. "Don't tell anyone."

"Come on," she said, threading her fingers with his. "You promised me dinner. And several more orgasms today."

He leered cheekily at her. "Lucky thing you're wearing a skirt, then. Call us a car, love, and if you promise to keep the screaming down, I'll bet you a blow job I can get you one on the way home, just using two fingers."

"You're on," she said huskily into his ear, sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. Then she smirked at him. "Get me to come twice, and I'll blow you _while_ you're cooking dinner."

 

 

III.

Malcolm wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the uniform. Like Kate and most of the UNIT eggheads, he didn't wear it very often. But for as much Kate wanted science to lead, at its most basic level UNIT was still unavoidably military. And so, like the other Constants and Directors, UNIT's fearsome Director of Communications was also an officer in that hierarchy, a bombshell that UNIT Director _Brigadier_ Kate Stewart hadn't dropped on him until about eight months after she'd sprung him from prison.

It made him deeply uncomfortable, and so he didn't wear the uniform if he could help it -- a tie and a sharp tongue was usually defense enough for him. But more and more often, Kate had been deploying him operationally into the field, using him as her eyes and ears when she was engaged elsewhere. And of late, one or both of them had been _constantly_ engaged elsewhere. The way the world was going, they were lucky to see each other for a few hours once a month. They didn't like it, but it was unimportant when the world was threatening to literally end.

The truth was, after the Cybermen incident, Malcolm had functionally become UNIT's second-in-command. They'd lost the Deputy Director in the airplane crash (and should have lost the Director, a thought that Malcolm tried not to dwell on), and Malcolm had stepped in to that void. They'd lost so much that everyone had needed to step up. No one had the heart to make it official yet, least of all Kate, but the promotion was coming.

And so, on days like this -- and indeed, every day for the last six weeks -- Malcolm traded a well-tailored suit for the uniform. Combat boots, dark utility trousers, insignia weighing heavily on his shoulders, body armor from the future under his shirt (a new addition to his kit that Kate had insisted on after the last time he'd ended up bleeding all over the infirmary), UNIT patch on a clever jacket that was full of alien tech, a radio in his ear. And a pistol on his hip that he was surprisingly good with, but tried not to touch.

Around him, the real soldiers swept through what was left of the shopping complex. Their clipped reports in his earpiece confirmed what he'd feared -- this was another Zygon incident, which was becoming a depressingly familiar story. He sighed as the soldiers brought out another blobby red body, this one painfully small. Like terrorists everywhere, the separatists seemed particularly bent on hurting their own people. Certainly, there had been isolated attacks on humans, but this had been a small market where ordinary Zygon families came to work and shop. It was coming to a head; Malcolm could feel it, his internal fuck-o-meter pointed firmly at 'raped by the business end of a snake.' They were going to have to address this, somehow. Unfortunately, Malcolm and Kate were locked on opposite sides of a months-long argument about just how to do that, an argument which Malcolm was not keen to start again.

He wearily scrubbed his hands down his face. Nothing to do about it today's except collect the bodies and plant a story that leaned more toward 'tragic accident' than 'alien revolution.' Toward that end, the UNIT troops had a firm perimeter set, outside of which curious and horrified onlookers were loitering. He glanced up at a sudden commotion at its edge and an uptick in the murmured conversation, and the sergeant in charge of the perimeter came toward him.

"Local MP is here, sir, asking to see the person in command." Malcolm nodded wordlessly, and the soldier went to collect the politician. UNIT's policy with respect to the government was not to volunteer information, but to cooperate when asked. So, he would cooperate, for a given value of cooperation. Later, Malcolm would consider that it was a sign of how far he was from his old life that he didn't know who was coming. Over the years, the contours of political constituencies, once so firmly entrenched in his mind, had been replaced by alien science and interspecies diplomacy.

As such, he as blindsided when his sergeant arrived with the MP in tow, and said: "Colonel Tucker, sir? Ms. Murray."

Before he could process the introduction, a very familiar voice commanded, "Tucker, was it? I need you to tell me just what the hell happened here."

 _Shit_ , Malcolm thought, and turned around with a grimace. "Hello, Nicola," he sighed as he faced the former Leader of the Opposition. Once upon a time, they'd destroyed one another--on Malcolm's word, Nicola Murray had been tossed from the leadership of the party to the very darkest back bench; and on hers, Malcolm had gone to prison. That they were both still standing at all was as least as unlikely as the fact that they were facing each other over the remains of an alien market.

" _Malcolm_?" the MP asked in disbelief, her face paling as she looked him over, her gaze lingering on the weapon. "Fuck me. I thought you were in prison."

"I'm not," he growled in irritation. "Look, as shitty as it is to see you again, can we get on with this? I'm in the middle of a bit of a fucking incident here."

"UNIT," Nicola said, tapping the badge on Malcolm's chest. "It didn't occur to me until just now that I'm looking at UNIT, not just the police or regular army. Which, speaking of weird and wooly things, does at least partially explain what you're doing out of prison and standing on some kind of fucking battlefield instead. If you need to sweep the extraterrestrial-shaped shit under the rug, who better than Malcolm Tucker? Damn."

"Familiar with us, I take it?" Malcolm asked dryly.

"Give me some credit, Malcolm," Nicola sighed. "I was a cabinet minister and Leader. Yes, I've had that terrifyingly bizarre lecture about UNIT and planetary security. This was an alien attack, I take it?"

"Yes. No." Malcolm sighed again. "An attack by fucking aliens on aliens. We're having a fucking refugee crisis."

"What are you going to do about it?" Nicola asked evenly.

"The attack, or the refugee crisis?"

"Both," Nicola answered.

"No fucking idea," Malcolm snapped. He lifted a finger, forestalling Nicola's response, and pressed the radio earpiece to his ear with a frown. It sounded like they'd found what was left of the bomb. Malcolm quickly toggled the radio switch at his throat. "Careful, lads. We've had intelligence about secondary explosives with potential radiological elements. All personnel, fall back. Use the 'bots to get it scooped and stored, and over to Science." He turned his gaze back to Nicola. "I'm going to take you back to the perimeter."

"Malcolm, what the _actual fuck_?" Nicola sighed, an exclamation directed at all the ways the world had become strange, including the sight of Malcolm Tucker in command of a military unit. Malcolm just shook his head. "Are there many extraterrestrials in my consistuency?" Nicola asked as they walked.

"Yes."

Nicola sighed in frustration. "That would have been nice to know, Malcolm. I know you hate me. And I'll admit I was not the world's best Minister or Leader. But you know what? I'm a damn good MP. Getting back to what I'm actually good at, listening to the people I represent and trying to make their lives better, was the best thing that ever happened to me. And a fucking heads up, a 'hey, Nicola, you've got a large population of blobby booger men' -- or fucking whatever -- 'a large group of alien refugees living nearby,' would have been helpful. I mean, _Jesus_ , Malcolm ..." she threw up her hands turned back to look at the destroyed shops. "What was this place?" she finally asked, her voice soft.

"A Zygon market."

"A what?"

"Zygon. Metamorphic humanoids, decent people, mostly. Their planet was blown up, collateral damage in some kind of massive fucking intergalactic war. Earth was recently talked into accepting refugees. But we're struggling with a radicalized subsection of them."

"Same damn thing as ever," Nicola sighed. "Right, that's the story. So what is the _story_? What are we going to tell people happened here? Gas leak explosion?"

"No," Malcolm shook his head. "That was our story the last time."

"Oh! That thing about ...?"

"Yeah."

The old allies-turned-adversaries lapsed into silence, standing side by side as they stared morosely together at the smoking rubble and growing line of bodies. "... freak earthquake?" Nicola suggested at last.

Malcolm shook his head again. "The science won't support it." He crossed his arms, one hand in front of his face, and chewed on his thumb. "Sinkhole," he said finally. "All that rain last week. Got into some small voids in the ground, made them bigger, and opened up a fucking sinkhole under the market. Nobody's fault, just one of those things ..."

Nicola nodded, her eyes distant as she worked through the political angles for herself. "Yes. Yes, that will work. Want me to announce it?"

Malcolm glanced over at her. "Yes. Start floating it." He gestured over to the perimeter. "Go talk to that crowd over there about this tragic accident. I'll get you a fake report and release later today and let you run with it. You can organize a fucking memorial and hold some press conferences where you're fucking _outraged_ about ground instability beneath urban infrastructure. That will keep UNIT out of it entirely."

"I can do that," Nicola said softly, then gave herself a firm shake, gathering her wits. "Never thought you'd spin me again, Malcolm Tucker. I can't tell if it's making me feel nostalgic, or just like I want to throw up in my mouth. Possibly both. Right, off I go."

"It's good to see you, Nicola," Malcolm called after her. "God fuck me, it is."

Nicola laughed. "And you. Oh, and Malcolm ..." she said, and dared to grab his arm before gesturing at the devastation. "Figure this out. And be safe."

He watched her go, then shook his head before pulling out his mobile and hitting the speed dial. "Hi Kate, love, yeah it's me," he said into the receiver. "Yeah. Zygons ..."


End file.
